On the mic - Surrey Life - June 2012

Sadly I failed to make the county's richest 50 again, but here is my June column for Surrey Life magazine. July's issue and my thrilling column therein is available for purchase now, kids!


In the gym


“I can help you lose that weight.” said Dan, my new-found personal training buddy. Good. I thought, because that’s what I want to do. That’s not all I want to do. I really want a body like Brad Pitt’s in Fight Club, but I’m not going to tell him that. He might laugh.

I have to get up at 3.45am for a living, six days a week. Then I put everything into my breakfast show on BBC Surrey. When I get home, all I want to do is eat, or sleep. The motivation to spend what little free time I have fannying about in a running kit has gone south, as has most of my physique. 

So I joined a gym. Just like that. Didn’t realise how easy it was. Tick a few boxes, hand over your direct debit details and you’re away. It was Dan who showed me round, and it was Dan’s polite enquiries which led to the awkward personal discussion about my spare tyre.

I have a problem with gyms. Why pay money to bounce up and down on a machine alongside a bunch of people you don’t know when you can do real exercise - running -  for free, in a vast and convenient gym situated directly outside your front door?

And seriously, does anyone actually enjoy wearing lycra? Or flailing about in a room stacked full of medieval torture machines? Or being subjected to appalling music videos played at ear-splitting volume? 

Yes, apparently. And it turns out I can cope with it too. Well, nearly. I am still no fan of the collective inhabitants of the free weights room.

If they could stay in the free weights room, that would be fine - but no, having bench-pressed themselves into a raging storm of testosterone, these fellows will insist on prowling the main gym floor, staring down pudgy, sweaty, normal gymmos like me. 

I can just about deal with looking like an exhausted, red-faced hippo in public, but I don't like my tubby frame being used to reinforce a muscle-bore's alpha male self-image. 

Secretly, of course, I’m jealous. And it hasn’t put me off. Since joining up two months ago, I have been going three times a week to gasp my way through evil Dan’s routines. I’ve learned how to do it properly too, with my little gym towel and water bottle, my sport earphones and stretchy clothing fibres woven by space mice from the future.

It works too. My stomach has flattened, my biceps have hardened and my manboobs are fading. But I still haven’t lost any weight.

I mention this to Dan. “Of course you haven’t!” he exclaims. “Muscle weighs more than fat. You’ve just replaced your fat with muscle.”

But I said I wanted to lose weight. 

“I thought you meant you wanted to lose that weight” he says, helpfully pointing at my midriff.

We still, clearly, have a long way to go.

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A love letter I waited too long to write

The Word Magazine has died. Next month's issue will be the last.

It's not lost on me that the medium I am using to communicate my grief probably killed it, but whilst I consume vast amounts of media online and expect it to be free, The Word was something I was happy, nay, grateful to throw money at.

It was brilliant. Ludicrously knowledgeable pop culture journalists writing with verve, wit and faith in the intelligence of their audience.

I bought the first ever edition of Word magazine (as it then was), because it was advertised somewhere I could see it (on illegal flyposts outside BBC Television Centre), and it had my hero Nick Cave on the cover.

As a disillusioned NME subscriber it was perfect - The Word was the wondrous illegitimate lovechild of Smash Hits and Melody Maker in their 80s heyday. But this precocious publication eschewed the blinkered approach to different musical genres and just celebrated what was good.

I'm listening right now to music which I got on the monthly Word CD. 15-tracks every 30-odd days which opened up endless avenues of discovery.

The iPod re-connected me with music, but The Word gave me something to put on it. There are hundreds of bands I just wouldn't have listened to without The Word putting them through my door - Sun Kil Moon, Can, Cashier No.9, The Leisure Society, Epic 45, Steve Pilgrim, Warren Zevon, John Grant, The Broken Family Band, Sebastian Tellier, Harry's Gym and many more....

I learned about Spotify, how Jean Jacque-Burnel got that ridiculous bass sound on Peaches, which books I should read... films I should see... I got an education in music pre-1976 (an area I've always been hazy on), and the working lives of jobbing musicians before they became global superstars. One interview with Phil Collins about his life pre-Genesis was humbling, and a Noel Gallagher cover interview gave a genuinely affecting insight into the life of one of the most over-exposed artists in pop history. I don't keep copies of old magazines, but I've still got that edition in the attic.

Why do I know what Barack Obama said to Andrew Marr moments before their recent-ish sit-down interview? Because I read it in The Word magazine. Why did I watch all five series of The Wire on the fx channel before you did? Because an article in The Word magazine made it clear in no uncertain terms that it was the single best thing on television ever. And it was. Why have I even heard of Azealia Banks? Because I read a piece delighting in her lyrical filthiness in The Word magazine.

The Word cared about its readers. It curated a friendly, whimsical online community - the Word Massive - it produced a superb weekly podcast, and it put on live events, including, on one delightful occasion, a musical boat trip down the Thames on a fake Mississippi paddle steamer.

Bands read it. Big-time radio DJs read it. Film-makers read it. Best-selling authors read it. And now it's gone.

And of all the shit things in the world which make piles of money, and all the shit people in the world who do nothing but lie, cheat, avoid tax and fix interest rates whilst being handsomely rewarded for making our society steadily more unfair and unequal, there weren't enough rich investors, or subscribers or casual readers prepared to pay enough money to keep a few brilliant people at The Word magazine on a liveable salary.

I haven't been this upset since Roger Taylor left Duran Duran.

I wonder if I'll get my remaining subs back...?

Ho hum.

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Putting the rest of us to shame

This is Tim Brabants from Chertsey. He is an A+E doctor and a current Olympic champion. He has an MBE, collected shortly after winning his kayaking gold in Beijing 2008. Tim is old enough to compete as a veteran club kayaker. Instead, he's out there performing against the very best in the world.

I spoke to Tim on my show just after he'd won the race which confirmed his selection for London 2012. Today I met him for the first time at Eton Dorney, the Olympic rowing, sprint canoeing and kayaking venue (very impressive, by the way). It was the first time the kayakers had put their Team GB uniforms on and the mood was, ahem, buoyant.

Tim is just about the nicest man you could wish to meet. Determined, modest, polite, disarmingly grateful for what has come his way, and clearly reluctant to spend much time talking about the incredible amount of hard, thankless work he must have done over the years. Years I spent, er...

Tim's day job is saving peoples' lives. He also just happens to be a world-class athlete with a golden past, and still possibly a golden summer ahead of him. He has, quietly and successfully, already achieved an incredible amount.

He's only 35.

On the mic - Surrey Life - May 2012

Here is my column for the May edition of Surrey Life. Regular readers will note this is not the first time I have used the angry imp metaphor. It doesn't improve with age.

Links to previous Surrey Life columns are at the bottom of this post. If you want to subscribe to Surrey Life and read my latest column, I'm sure that would make my editor very, very happy.

 

Radio is about stories. Whether you are listening to the narrative development of a song, or the heartbreaking personal testimony of a parent who has lost a child, radio excels at enriching the world we live in with the lives of others.

 

At its best, the medium can be so compelling we find ourselves reaching into somebody else’s world, connecting with their stories, and intertwining them with our own emotions and experiences.

 

Every radio professional should be working tirelessly to create those moments of connection with the listener. A facility with the written and spoken word, accuracy, ideas, empathy and a sense of theatre are all important, but nothing beats individual, human stories. 

 

Finding those stories and the people to tell them takes no little skill. On a breakfast show, those tales need to fit in around all the things you would expect from breakfast radio - news bulletins, weather reports, travel updates - the complete delivery of all the information you need about the world around you.

 

The secret is in what we call the “clock hour”. Every minute of every hour in the breakfast show has a designated purpose. A radio programme should sound like nothing more technical than a series of smooth, easy, purposeful conversations, but the reality is very different.

 

Each guest, each story, each information segment should appear at a specific time and serve a specific need. Not just because we have a lot to fit in, and not just because every breakfast show needs light and shade, but because people set their morning routines by what they hear on their kitchen wireless.

 

If you switch on your radio at eight o’clock in the morning, you expect to hear the news. If you know you need to be in the shower by the time I get to the paper review, how infuriating would it be if an interview overran, and you found you were late for work? 

 

Plotting the clock hour starts a day in advance - there is a set amount of “furniture” we have to negotiate - the travel, the sport, the weather, the news. Then there are the minutes allotted to stories - different sorts of stories for different parts of the clock hour. If you are listening at 7.10am, you will hear a different sort of story to one you hear at 7.25am, and again at 7.50am. The idea is to create a rhythm to the programme that you can subconsciously use to inform your morning routine.

 

Of course, this all goes out live, which means it does so in an atmosphere of controlled unpredictability. I have a hopeless recipe-based metaphor about this which I will inflict on you now:

 

Get an angry imp, some good ingredients, ten talented chefs and a boiling cooking pot on a portable stove. 

 

Ask your talented chefs to stand in a circle at least 20 yards from the portable stove and chuck some prepared ingredients towards the boiling cooking pot, whilst the imp (has to be an imp, or a hobbit), pushes the stove around the room, swearing loudly at everyone.

 

To make a live radio show work, you need the quality ingredients, you need the talented chefs, and then you need to accept that whatever you're trying to make may be completely different from what you set out to make, or rather wonderful in spite of the circumstances.

To read April's column click here. To read my first column, in March 2012, click here.

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On the Mic - Surrey Life - April 2012

This column first appeared in the April edition of Surrey Life. I have tinkered with it since and posted it below. To read all my columns as they were published, click here (£). To read my first column for Surrey Life for free in my blog, click here. To read my latest column. Go buy the magazine or subscribe to the digital version. It's great, particularly if you are rich.

*coughs*

I have a theory about radio. Ninety per cent of it is turning up. This probably holds true of many jobs, but if you can nail reliability in radio, you are well on the way to making a decent career.

Almost all radio is made by small teams of people with specialist skills at very odd times of the day, every day, and usually live. If you are a creative person who can turn up ready to work at 6am every Sunday morning, eschewing parties, weddings and weekends away without complaint, you will get on.

Which is why being ill is not a good thing. Especially if you present a breakfast show. If tens of thousands of listeners are going to let you innervate their waking thoughts on a daily basis, you need to turn up on a daily basis, and sound happy about it.

You may have a favourite radio presenter. If, one day, they aren’t there, you feel disappointed. If you are let down regularly, there’s a good chance you won’t come back. Why should you bother, if they’re not going to?

So if you work in radio, try not to have a complicated private life that makes you prone to emotional and overwrought states of mind. Try not to have a drink or drugs habit. Try to make sure you have at least two alarms. And try not to be ill.

I was ill recently. Not the sort of ill which would stop me from writing an email or minding the kids for a bit, but ill in a way which found me running a temperature, feeling dazed and producing a startling amount of liquid from my nose.

I went home early after my first show of the week and emailed my boss at 2.30pm saying I felt a little grim. “A little grim” isn’t ill enough not to present a breakfast show, but I wanted to flag up my less-than-bushy-tailed condition. My boss was understandably keen for me to indicate whether or not this meant I was going to make it the next day, as the number of people who are a) able to do my job and b) available to do my job is somewhat limited at the best of times.

So I emailed again at 4.30pm saying I felt better (I did. I’d just mainlined a maximum-strength lemsip) and promised to be present and correct for my show at 6am the next morning. 

Bad mistake. I woke up at 3.45am sweating and delirious. I got dressed and staggered to my car. I was hallucinating as I drove down the A3 towards our Guildford studios and arrived a dripping, incoherent mess. The three hours I completed on air were not my finest.

My boss, bless her, came in the moment the show finished and sent me home with instructions not to return until I was better. I took two days to stop coughing, sneezing, and … leaking. Apart from the dreadful broadcast (which I’m told at least had some comedy value) I felt very stupid for making the wrong call.

I wasn’t trying to be a martyr - I’m as lazy as the next person. If I had the remotest inkling I was going to be anywhere near as ill as I was I would have cried off the day beforehand. It’s just… I have this theory that ninety per cent of radio is turning up.